


Blankets

by PjCole



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Avengers, Gen, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 05:57:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16320401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PjCole/pseuds/PjCole
Summary: Fill for Prompt: Tony finds Steve sleeping under a truly ridiculous number of blankets late one night.





	Blankets

**Author's Note:**

> This got a little heavier than I think the prompt really called for, but it felt right? (I really want to write a follow up to this, but who knows. I have like 18 things I am working on and still start new things).

Tony is stumbling into the communal living room after a three day inventing binge at roughly 3:30 in the morning. He just wants a nice decaf cup of hot liquid sludge before bed and the living room happens to sit between the hallway (and thus elevator doors) and the communal kitchen. (And sure he knows that his own floor has a very functional coffee machine, but the one on this floor always gets a nice undertone to it since Bruce always uses it to brew his weird herbal teas and something about the floral taste really adds to the burnt acidity Tony prefers). He is stumbling in the dark, or actually slight blue hue of the arc reactor, since he'd insisted JARVIS not bother with the overhead lights incase any teammates where about at this hours. 

Anyways, he is walking mostly in the dark behind the couch when he sees it. Steve, or more accurately a vaguely blonde plume of hair that suggests the existence of Steve, under what might actually be 9 blankets. It makes him pause in the pursuit of sleepy time ambrosia, because last time he checked the month was August and no amount of stellar air conditioning really mitigated the sticky humidity of New York summers. Still, here Steve is, on the communal floor absolutely cocooned in likely every single throw blanket at his disposal. For a brief hysterical moment Tony considers that maybe he managed a 3 month instead of day no-sleep-excursion, but the likelihood of him still being alive after such a thing really disqualifies that explanation. 

"Nrrgggh?" Steve slurs suddenly and Tony stills, holds his breath even. Then he remembers that they are both outside their beds at ungodly o’clock, so he has nothing to feel guilty or weird about. 

"Sorry, sorry. Go back to sleep.” He waves and continues on to his original target, resolutely ignoring the decidedly not adorable grumbling and squirming of the sleep mussed super soldier behind him. “I'm just your friendly neighborhood sleep deprived billionaire. Nothing to worry about."

"Tony?" Steve asks after mostly untangling himself from the blanket mountain. Tony looks up from watching the thick liquid trickle into his mug and sees Steve standing just outside the large doorway to the kitchen. He looks so young, almost amusingly tiny, standing barefoot with two blankets draped over his shoulders like decorative capes. His hair is stuck up on one side and he squints into the half light while scratching absently at his stomach. 

"Yeah. I'm just getting some coffee." Tony responds in a rush when he realizes he’s been staring long enough for the machine to ding at him in prompting.

"Should you be having coffee this late?" Steve asks and even Tony can tell it is an empty platitude, something said so often his mouth is making the noises without conscious effort. 

"I'm getting decaf, Mom." Tony responds with the same easy muscle memory, picking the cup up and taking a much too hot sip. 

"Okay." And it turns out that Steve brought a third blanket with him, this one looks to be his comforter based on size and general plumpness. Tony only notices because Steve turns back around to go back into the living room and in the process pulls the blanket up from dragging behind him to drape over his head. His steps are slow and a little wobbly. 

Tony follows, clutching the mug tight to his chest to breathe in the steam and let the humid air lull his eyelid into drooping just the smallest amount. Steve is seated back on the couch and pulling the rest of his blanket fort back into place. The motions are smooth and easy, but he seems suddenly so terribly far away that Tony feels his whole body reaching forward in desperation. 

"Okay, I don't wanna pry or poke at some weird super soldier psychosis or anything, but what the hell is up with the eskimo look you got going here?" Which, okay may have not be the gentlest way to get Steve back into the living room with him, but brash humor is Tony’s default setting. Poke hard, but in a funny place so you get their attention but can be indignant at their anger. 

Steve looks up at him again and Tony’s reaching seems to have only pushed the man farther away. His eyes are nearly glazed over and he spends several long breaths just staring at Tony, through and past him. Tension slowly bleeds in all around them and Tony’s eyes are getting watery from the steam, but he no longer remembers how to lower his arms. The walls of the room are in stark focus, the texture of the carpet too rough on Tony’s feet, the soft white light from the kitchen burning his peripheral. The room is far too aware of itself, the tension is sentient and staring down Tony with the same blue glaze of Steve’s eyes. 

Tony swallows finally, a dry and forced thing. He tries for a smile, grimaces and adds, "no, no. Never mind. Pretend I didn't ask."

Steve blinks at him and a thread cuts, tumbling them back into the present moment. His focus shifts and he looks down at the pile on his lap, covering the feet he’s tucked up under himself. Tony finally feels free to move and starts to make a very hasty retreat, when Steve looks up and locks him in place again. "I had a nightmare."

"Oh." Tony responds and it’s not really a question, but he still feels poised for an answer. His lips are suddenly so terribly dry and he licks them quickly before biting at the inside of his cheek.

"Yeah, sometimes.” Steve starts, still looking at Tony. There is a pause and then a sigh and the soldier looks away. His voice is smaller when he finally continues.“Sometimes, I wake up and I feel like I’m- I feel cold."

"Oh." Again, like it is the only word Tony remembers. What on earth is his role here? He never even asks for help for his own unpleasant dreams, let alone helps someone else. 

"No, it's fine. It's been awhile.” Steve insists, a hand pulling out of the tight knot of fabric to run shaky through his hair. “I thought I'd gotten over it. But, well." Another deep sigh before Steve shoves his arm back into his constructed warmth to pull all of it tighter around his body. "I'm cold."

"What can I do?" Tony asks, feeling like the most useless person on this earth standing here using both his hands to hold a mug of decaf coffee. 

"Nothing, Tony it's fine really. Eventually I'll get hot and it'll go away." Steve shrugs, burrows deeper and has the audacity to smile weekly at Tony. And, okay, this is an out, a really easy hear-no-evil-see-no-evil out. Steve obviously has done this very dance before and understands the mechanisms. Tony could go back to his own little sitting room upstairs to enjoy his drink. Tony could step out and not mention it again, ignore the array of folded blankets that found their way slowly into this room over the last few months and pretend he never saw Steve buried under them with all the wariness of his 90 plus years. Tony could leave Steve alone and pretend he doesn’t understand that Steve specifically chose the common room to avoid that very thing. 

There are nights, more often than not really, that Tony sits alone in this same room for the exact same reason. It is the least lonely room in the whole Tower, even completely empty. There is a ring on the coffee table from the time Clint left a McDonalds cup on it for three days. There are six pairs of shoes stacked on the far wall, all but two Natasha’s (the other two have been there for months and can only fit Bruce or Clint, but both completely refuse to take ownership). One of Thor’s jackets is always tossed on the back of the red recliner closest to the kitchen and there is always a few recipes tossed on the side table next to it, always different, always picked up by the cleaners before lunch and always re-spawned by dinner. Sometimes Bruce leaves a mug of cold tea on the coffee table, sometimes Natasha leave a few knifes on the window bench next to Steve’s sketchpad and pencils. Even now, a stack of papers Tony left there yesterday sits in it’s usual spot just adjacent to Clint’s ring on the table. 

Tony could leave Steve up here and it would be fine. All the little pieces of their dysfunctional family would be enough comfort and Steve would never hold any of it against him. 

"Budge over." Tony demands, turning to drop his mug on the table, on top of a coaster because he is a civilized man. 

"What?" Steve blinks and sinks back into the couch as if to specifically go against Tony’s demand. Tony pays it no mind and simply pulls at one of the edges of the blankets. 

"Move." This time the demand is paired with a light shove to Steve’s shoulder as Tony tries to pull up the edge enough to get room for him to crawl into the pile. 

"Tony, you don't–" Steve starts to say, even as he lifts up one hip and allows the blankets to unfurl. 

"Steve, just.” It takes a little maneuvering, but Tony gets himself tucked shoulder to shoulder with Steve and all the layers draped over both of them. “Just, let me, okay?"

It’s awkward for all of three seconds, before Steve sags with a deep exhale and allows his weight to rest up against Tony. "Yeah, okay."

It’s way too warm and Tony still vaguely wants to be holding his mug, but he also feels more comfortable than he has in months, years even. Steve is solid, but soft, all along his right side and the comforter is a thick down not dissimilar to the one Tony himself sleeps with whenever he makes it to his bedroom. The window directly in front of them is open to let in the neverending glimmering of Manhattan stretching out into the horizon. It feels like home. 

"I get it.” Tony says after a long time. Long enough that his voice feels tight and rough. Steve does not stir, continues to be a smooth weight against Tony’s arm. Perhaps he is sleeping and perhaps that is what drives Tony to continues. “I mean, there isn't a way to explain just how cold space is, it isn’t even freezing. Sometimes I wake up and I feel like there isn't any air. There isn't any water or wind or anything and I don't even feel cold. I just feel numb, like I'm spinning away without a tether because it is so cold I can't feel anything anymore."

Tony looks over at Thor’s jacket and only sighs when Steve shifts to look at the side of his face. 

"Tony." It hangs there, not demanding anything. 

"Everyone has their shit Steve." He says it softly, softer than he knew his voice could ever be and it feels like he is telling himself more than anything. A hand takes his, just as gentle as the words. 

"Yeah.” The hand squeezes and Steve breathes in deeply, building up his chest and shifting Tony where he rests against the larger man’s shoulder. 

“I can hold my breath for something like eight minutes.” Tony turns to look at him for that, because honestly that might be the most bizarre segway he’s ever heard and he is the king of random segways. That or the most out of the blue come on and really Tony needs to actually get _on_ his let’s-get-over-Steve train for real one of these days. 

“I passed out from the hypothermia before I ever swallowed any water.” And wow if Tony didn’t feel like a complete tool for his last thought. He tightens his fingers where they’ve interlocked with Steve’s. Steve squeezed back and takes a few more deep breaths. “I was awake, for awhile. And I remember all of it.”

"Shit." The serum was something of beauty sure, over all something stunningly amazing. Certainly a memory like that was a blessing more often than not, but Tony feels himself suddenly wishing for someway to eliminate that particular side effect. He shuffles closer to Steve, pressing his check into the hard bone of the other man’s shoulder. 

"It was really dark and so cold. I–" A deep breath in and Steve shudders– shivers –a bit as he lets it out. Tony presses impossibly closer, wishing furiously the poor circulation from the arc reactor did not make his fingertips too cold. "I know I'm not there anymore. I know it, but it's just so cold." Another shiver, but it is more subdued and Steve is resting his head on top of Tony’s and pulling their joined hands into his lap to clasp in his other. 

"Does this help?" Tony asks, pressing so close his knee rested atop Steve’s. 

"Yeah." Steve answers immediately, voice muffled in Tony’s hair. If he minds the oil and sweat he does not comment. 

"Well, next time.” Tony’s voice is shaky and horse, but he is so comfortable that no matter how painful being held like this may be, he will not move for anything. “Next time, come find me. I'm not really good about the whole talking thing but. Well, I get it.” He uses his free hand to rub up along Steve’s bicep, slower than would be useful to warm it but it’s the only indulgence he will allow. As if this entire situation is not a huge indulgence. “Body heat is really the only thing that can get me through feeling that kind of numb. So, come find me. I won't judge you, I promise."

The promise feels heavier than what it is for, Tony’s voice too low, too wrecked. He feels a nod into the crown of his head and just breaths in the hot air captured between them by the blankets.

"Tony, what– what do you do?" Steve asks after another long stretch of silence, Tony is almost asleep and responds without thinking. 

"I go lay on top of one of my car's engines." It’s true, even before Pepper left, the rumble was like a heartbeat that never asked questions. Lately, he found himself up here more often, but when it got really bad, when is felt too silent and empty around him, when he woke up to JARVIS’s disembodied voice as the only noise he would start up one of his babies. Would lay on top of it and pretend it was someone breathing beneath him. Would sometimes pretend the whirling was JARVIS’s heartbeat beneath him. 

Steve lifts his head from where it was resting on Tony’s and frees one of his hands to tap at Tony’ chin. It takes a breath, but Tony allows Steve’s hand to guide his face up, so gently. 

His eyes are glassy, but his smile is all warmth. Tony feels it like a bristle draggin up his throat, like a warm cup of tea in the middle of december. 

"Then. Next time.” A nod and his smile wobbles just the smallest amount. “Next time you come find me too. Okay?"

"I–" It hurts, the noise. It hurts how tenderly Steve is looking at him. Like all of it is okay, sad and terrible, but okay. 

"I won't ever judge you, Tony. Never." 

"Okay."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Les Cauchemars (the blankets remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17849351) by [Lets_call_me_Lily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lets_call_me_Lily/pseuds/Lets_call_me_Lily)




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